Words
by Onyx
Summary: Perhaps not as depressing as my standard stock. This is my tolken "Piccolo trains Gohan" work - with exploration into Pic's life pre-student. (Much thanks to Bucky for giving me the idea ^^)


It was a truly beautiful evening – the kind that was entirely too pleasant to waste in sleeping. The desert air was clear and crisp, which made the stars seem all the closer. Piccolo had the distinct impression that he could reach out and touch them.  
  
The canyon walls glowed like furnaces in the fierce light of the setting sun, light that the feather clouds sucked into themselves like tissues absorbing spilled wine. The whole seen glowed with the sort of perfection that, he suspected, could only be experienced from a campfire.  
  
He didn't know what had prompted him to do so, but he spoke. "It's not so bad once you get used to it, is it, Gohan?"  
  
He had certainly not spoken much to his young student before, but the child did not seem unduly surprised at being addressed. Gohan was lounging like a kitten, sprawled on his stomach with his chin resting in both palms. "It's beautiful."  
  
After that, there was a relatively long silence. Piccolo, who was not used to conversing, didn't realize that the silence might be uncomfortable to his student – he considered it natural enough.  
  
"Mr. Piccolo?" the boy said at last, timidly.  
  
The Nameksei-jinn raised a brow ridge. Mr. Piccolo. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about  
  
that title. Admittedly, it was better than "monster" or "demon," which he was used to. Still…it was too familiar, he decided. Making a mental note to break the boy of it as quickly as possible, he answered. "Hm?"  
  
"How come you and my dad fight all the time?"  
  
The response on the tip of Piccolo's tongue was, "Because he's an idiot." He almost said it, actually…but for some reason, his mouth had gone dry. He closed his eyes and swallowed, doing his best to regain his composure. Why, indeed? Why did he fight the only being who had ever shown him any sort of…and here, Piccolo's vocabulary failed him.  
  
How would a demon know a word like "kindness?"  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
It's not easy growing up without a father. It's even harder to grow up without anyone – as the tall, dark figure sitting on the edge of a mesa, overlooking miles of golden sand and glaring sun, could testify.  
  
He was the demon king…more or less. What could he be, if not that? And yet, he didn't feel particularly demonic. What he felt…was confused.  
  
And very, very alone.  
  
Piccolo sighed dismally, putting his head in his hands. If anyone had seen him in such a state, he would have been furious – and the unfortunate onlooker would have been dead. But there was no one out there but him.  
  
"Son Goku," he muttered, pronouncing the name slowly, as if he were tasting it and finding it particularly bitter. "Who are you that I should know you so well? That I should dream of you every night? Who are you," he growled, his voice becoming increasingly strained, "that you should die by my hand someday?"  
  
No one answered him. No one could hear him. He was alone.  
  
With another, deeper sigh, he delved into his subconscious, into things that he remembered and, at the same time, did not remember. The vision of a boy with wild black hair and a gi the color of a setting sun. The boy who had killed his father. The boy who had caused him to be born, and whom he had sworn to kill.  
  
His mortal enemy, whom he had never even met.  
  
Nothing, the demon king decided, could ever be easy. He wished with a passion that came from the very core of his being that his father was there; paradoxically, he was glad that he wasn't. He knew enough from the memories of his father – that he didn't really remember – that the first Daimao Piccolo would have been displeased to find his son mired in confusion.  
  
No, displeased wasn't the proper word. Murderously angry? Yes, that fit much better.  
  
But he wanted his father there, all the same. No matter that he wouldn't have been born. No matter that, even if he had, his father would most likely not treat him any better than he had his other minions. All he really wanted was for someone else to make a decision for once. While he was wanting things that he'd never have, he might as well throw in wanting someone to tell him that he was doing the right thing. If he really wanted to go overboard, he could wish for someone to tell him that everything would be alright someday…even if it wouldn't be, and he knew, it'd be a nice thing to hear.  
  
Piccolo chuckled wryly - now he was being ridiculous. Next he'd be wanting someone to come hold his hand. Or someone to look at him, just once, without screaming. No, that was a bit too far out of the realm of possibility, even for a joke. The only humans who had seen him and not screamed had been those who had fainted before they found their voices.  
  
But all the same, it was something to think about. Something besides killing Son Goku.  
  
And when I kill him…what then?  
  
His father's expectations were clear. Take over the world, then destroy it. Simple enough. Piccolo sighed, drawing one knee up under his chin, focusing his eyes on the sunset. He'd always liked sunsets for some reason. They were so…so what?  
  
He didn't have a word. That bothered him. None of the words that he knew were worth using – not a one. Piccolo didn't think himself an idiot; he'd always managed to think his way through problems so far. On his own, he'd deciphered the fishline tangle of memories, emotion, and knowledge that his father had thrust at him in the moment of his death. He'd learned to speak from those memories; otherwise, he'd have been limited to words such as, "help!" and "demon." He'd learned how to fight, gained control of his chi, garnered out techniques the likes of which had not been seen on earth for hundreds of years…and yet he had no words to describe something that was not violent, not angry, not…painful.  
  
He pushed that thought out of his mind with some difficulty; it was one of those nagging, cloying ones that pressed in around him like his own, private straight jacket whenever he stopped training and actually allowed his mind to wander. Which was one reason that he stopped training so rarely.  
  
But what would he train for, once Son Goku was dead? World domination? Piccolo looked around, his ebony eyes scanning leagues of sand that ran together like layers of watercolor, on and on until the sky and the ground were one. He had the world already, if he wanted to be truly technical. He could go wherever he wanted, do whatever he pleased, and no one would stop him. No one would dare.  
  
Except Son…and Son was going to die.  
  
No problems. Clear sailing. After Son Goku died, everything would simplify…all conflicts would resolve themselves. He'd never have to worry about anything again…except maybe which obnoxious, screeching, confusing human to vaporize next. It wasn't, he reflected, a bad setup.  
  
Then why in the name of the gods did he feel so…so…  
  
No word. Again, he had no word to put to the strange, churning feeling that turned his insides like a dust devil on the Sahara. Piccolo sighed again, heavily. Did everyone feel so…however he was feeling? Did humans ever …wonder about…things?…  
  
Piccolo's expression snapped from confused to blank, as if a shutter had been slammed down. The unfeeling mask that was now his face seemed slightly strained, as if the wearer were unaccustomed to it…but something in his eyes indicated that he would get used to it all too soon. "Phe, what do I care," he muttered, clenching one fist. "What does it matter to me what humans think…or if they think at all."  
  
Oddly enough, that feeling inside him seemed to strengthen. With a frustrated snarl, Piccolo stood, surveying once more the stretch of sand and rock that had become his home of sorts for the past three years. As the sunset drained into twilight, so dimmed whatever sense of peace he had experienced. Now, the rougher character of the terrain became apparent: briers clinging tenaciously to cliff faces, scrub grass that forced its way up through stone and sod, and large, stoic boulders worn smooth by coarse, uncaring sand being blown against their sides for century upon century. Perhaps at one time, they had been elaborately-shaped. Perhaps they had arced gracefully, perhaps they had been…different.  
  
Some corner of his mind wanted to make a metaphor, but he abruptly squashed that budding thought. There was no sense in dwelling on pointless, philosophical babble. He had work to do, places to go, people to kill.  
  
And maybe someday he'd be able to ignore whatever it was inside him that hurt so horribly…  
  
* * *  
  
"Mr. Piccolo?"  
  
Piccolo blinked, realizing how long it must have been since he last spoke. Daydreaming, yet. Gods, I am slipping… "Forget about it," he snapped at last, crossing his arms more tightly, feeling the snarl lines crossing his face – the mask coming back into place. It no longer seemed to chafe so badly – in fact, it was comforting. "Besides, I don't think your dad and I will be doing too much more fighting, anyhow."  
  
From the corner of his eye, he saw a grin flash across Gohan's face, sparkling in his eyes. "Wow, that's great, sir."  
  
The warrior snorted. Humans could be so odd at times. Especially the half- Saiya-jinn ones.  
  
"Because I was gonna invite you to my birthday party, but…well, Mom won't allow any fighting, and…"  
  
Piccolo felt his eyes widen, and he was afraid for a moment. Yes, afraid. Because he hurt inside again, and he had no idea why. The boy was doing it to him, somehow. But…what exactly was he doing? "Listen, brat," he snapped, glaring in Gohan's direction. "I don't have time for this meaningless, sentimental drivel. Either say something worthwhile or go to sleep."  
  
The boy merely smiled sleepily and sat up – so little time, Piccolo noted, it had taken for Gohan to become accustomed to his mannerisms…mere days ago, he would have been sniffling. "Aw, please sir? It'll be fun. And even though Mom's kinda scared of you, I know she'd let you come just as soon as I tell her what a great guy you are deep down inside, and…"  
  
Gods, that one hurt. At least, it was mostly hurt, that feeling…but it was also something else. He didn't understand it at all…but he didn't like it. And he fully intended to make it stop. "Do you know what I'm good at?" he hissed, looking directly at Gohan, taking care to bare his fangs. He raised one four-fingered hand, knotted with tendons, crossed with calluses, each finger tipped with a long, wicked-looking claw. "I've killed more people with this hand than you've met in your life, brat. I fight. That is all I do. That is all I've ever been great at – and if you have any intention of surviving this battle, you'd best be the same. Now lie down and shut up, we've got a long day tomorrow. Longer, if you keep bothering me."  
  
Gohan had drawn back slightly during this outburst – but he did not appear to be frightened. Only a little disappointed. "Yes sir," he mumbled, curling up on the ground.  
  
Piccolo bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep from growling. Stupid kid. Didn't he realize that his "Mr. Piccolo" was a killer from birth…didn't he see that monsters weren't capable of human feelings, and that they didn't like to be reminded of that fact?  
  
It was a long time before the would-be demon king managed to put enough of his anger…among other things…aside to meditate. That was when he heard it…muffled sobs. And Piccolo had had quite enough. "This is not going to help your situation," Piccolo hissed without opening his eyes. "Dry it up, or we start sparring. Now. And I can go all night."  
  
"S…sorry, sir," a timid, shaky voice piped. "I had a dream, and…"  
  
"I'm obviously being too soft with you, then. If you have enough energy to dream."  
  
A shivery swallow and a very hiccupy "Yes sir."  
  
Piccolo "hmphed" softly, doing his best to sink back into meditation. He had almost made it when he felt a weight settle against his side. The demon king growled once: a warning that such behavior would not be tolerated. Gohan, of course, ignored him – he could feel the boy snuggling closer. He could feel warmth at his side, hear the child breathing…he had never been this close to anyone that he wasn't fighting with…  
  
Opening one eye, Piccolo hissed, "And just what do you think you're doing?"  
  
The boy looked up at him with eyes like those of a hare that's suddenly realized that it's staring directly down the barrel of a gun. Oddly enough, Piccolo sensed that Gohan wasn't afraid so much that he'd hurt him…only that he would push him away.  
  
Which, as far as he was concerned, marked the kid as clinically insane.  
  
"Please, sir?" Gohan asked suddenly, wrapping his much-smaller fingers around Piccolo's hand. The Nameksei-jinn couldn't help but notice that those small, stubby fingers barely made it halfway across his palm…a palm that, for as long as he could remember, had been producing energy blasts fit to shake whole continents… "I won't bother you, I promise, I'll be really quiet, and you won't even know I'm here, it's just that I was really scared and I thought you were gonna die like daddy did and I didn't wanna lose you, too, and daddy always let me sleep with him when I got scared, but…"  
  
"Kid," Piccolo snapped, exasperation edging into his voice, "you're either blind, crazy, or stupid. Do I look like your father?"  
  
Sniffling. "No, but…"  
  
With a pointed snarl, Piccolo closed his eyes. "Alright, then. Case closed. Now get to sleep before I lose my patience."  
  
The fingers only curled more tightly around his hand. "Please?"  
  
This was ridiculous. Grown men cowered in his presence. Great warriors would flee from him at a wave of his hand…why was this child so hard to dislodge? "Will it shut you up?" he snapped, his tone steeped in annoyance.  
  
"Yes sir," the boy replied all too quickly.  
  
"Fine, but one more word from you, and I'm throwing you off that cliff over there. Got it?"  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
Piccolo considered throwing him at that point – he really did. But he had the odd feeling that it wouldn't help at all. The kid would just climb back up and leech onto him again. Besides, it wasn't so terrible, having someone beside him.  
  
Of course, if anyone saw this, he'd have to kill him. Or rip his tongue out, at the very least. But no one was around, so he supposed he could let it slide this one time.  
  
When he was quite sure that the boy was asleep, he cracked one eye open. Sure enough, Son Gohan was leaning against him, both eyes closed, face as smooth and unlined as freshly-cut marble. A small smile even curved his lips. Something about it was strange, Piccolo decided. Something different, something he'd never seen in someone that near to him…and then he knew what it was. Gohan wasn't afraid of him. In fact, the boy was even less afraid when he was nearby…  
  
And it made Piccolo feel that strange ache inside all over again. It was like the pain he experienced in a limb that had lost circulation for a time – like a sleeping foot waking up. "How do you do it?" he muttered at length, his voice halfway between anger and bemusement. "I don't even know what it is that you're doing to me…these feelings. I've never felt this way about anyone in my life. And I don't want to feel that way now. So cut it out, alright?"  
  
Gohan merely burrowed closer.  
  
Piccolo rolled his eyes – this was pathetic. A warrior such as he reduced to a security blanket. How his father must be laughing…  
  
The boy shifted again, and this time he mumbled something in his sleep. Any other being would have missed it, but Piccolo could make out the words…  
  
"Love you, Mr. Piccolo."  
  
Piccolo blinked. For just an instant, the mask wavered, and surprise filtered into his expression. Love?  
  
What in the gods' names was this "love?" Did it have anything to do with the strange, seeping warmth that had coupled with the persistent ache in his chest?  
  
Oh well, he thought wryly. One more thing I don't understand. But he did understand something else.  
  
"Rest easy, kid. Nothing's going to happen to you. Not while I'm here. I promise."  
  
And it could have been his imagination, but he thought that the pain he was feeling lessened a bit with those words. 


End file.
